Misdirection
by ArtisticAbandon
Summary: Never trust uninhabited planets and natives who have the advantage of home ground. Or, the reason why Rodney never thought John would remember his password. Team fic. Shep whump. For TPring, thru H/C secret santa 2012.


_**Summary:**_ Never trust uninhabited planets and natives who have the advantage of home ground. Or, the reason why Rodney never thought John would remember his password. Team fic. Shep whump.

_**Rating:**_ mild language; some themes; some blood; no more than the usual episode. :)

_**Timing: **_Set most likely just after Critical Mass (2x13), but definitely before Quarantine (4x13). Aka vague S2 and S3 ish.

_**Words:**_ ~16K

_**Notes**_: Answer to T'Pring for h/c secret santa 2012. Beta by rosaleeadams. Prompt and notes at the end, 'cause it's vaguely spoilery like that.

* * *

**MISDIRECTION**

* * *

It was never supposed to be this way. But then, the day actually started out with a first contact mission to an uninhabited planet. So. Yeah. This kind of thing is probably par for the course.

* * *

John Sheppard hits the clearing where the gate is at a run. Well, it could've been a run, except he's trying to do it through water up to his _knees_. So its more like splashing than actual running, wading at high speed than anything, but it's the thought that counts. On the other hand, thoughts count like horseshoes and hand-grenades. Which is to say that none of them get him very far against the Wraith.

He almost wishes that that's what's chasing him and his team. Wraith, he knows how to handle. More importantly, Wraith, he knows how to _kill_.

Dammit. He should've _known_ that there's a reason the stupid planet's uninhabited.

"Dial the gate!" he yells, knowing what's behind him. And it isn't pretty.

His team need no urging. His team is _awesome_ like that.

Rodney's already splashing his way to the DHD, with Teyla pacing him. Ronon, he knows, isn't too far from John himself. Protecting his six. And at the moment, he's more grateful for that than he usually is. Those things are _scary_. Like big cats, except that he's never before seen cats that are _taller than he is_ even on all fours.

Yeah. This is definitely _one of those missions_.

"Where to?!" Rodney hollers back over his shoulder, leaning over the DHD, breathless and winded, but ready to dial anyway. He'll take a breather when they're on the other side of the gate or dead – both seem equally likely at this point.

There's crashing and splashing behind at the right distance for the edge of the pond – flood? – they're all wading through. It is more sound than Ronon could ever make, and so he knows the cats are close. Too close. "Anywhere!" _Somewhere __not__ here!_

Rodney just nods and hurriedly starts dialing. Not so much an address at random – because, hello! What are the chances that they'll hit the right one if he does? – but one of the ones he just happens to have in his memory. Its also one of the ones on today's list for redirects, so hey, happy coincidences.

And the truth is that Sheppard doesn't really care right now. They've been running since they landed on this forsaken planet, more through water than on dry ground, and to say they're tired would be saying the Wraith are peckish. They've already had a few encounters with the Big Cats. The first encounter lost them their GDOs. The second one is why they're running hell for leather back for the gate. How was he to know that these Big Cats didn't like to eat beef from MREs? (Not that he'd eat it either, given a choice.)

Besides, his BDU pants are kind of saturated from the splashing, and his boots are a write-off. More to the point, his socks are wet, and he can hear them squishing with every step. He _hates_ wet socks. Next planet, he plans to book some serious dry-off time.

Still, having lost their GDOs, what all that really means is that they can't dial Atlantis direct. And it's Rodney's turn to dial. Which means they'll end up anywhere on today's Random List Of Acceptable Planets To Dial.

The _whub-thump-splush_ of the gate finally engaging is the best sound he's heard all day. Of course, with the way his day is going, the next sound he hears is the whine of Ronon's gun competing with the roar of the Big Cats they're all running from. Right. Behind. Him.

He immediately pivots and starts shooting, but he already knows what's going to happen. it's like the world slows down, just for him, and the next few seconds happen in slow motion.

There's a Big Cat _right behind him_, and his sight is filled with gaping jaws, twitching ears, and black eyes looking right at him. He's so close that he can smell its breath.

He's still bringing the P90 up, bullets zinging into the water, when he notices movement out of the corner of his eyes. Yeah. He was so fixated on the mouth that he missed the freakin' _paw _heading right for him.

Of course, now that he's seen it, he can't _not _see it. He can see the tawny fur on it rippling in the soft breeze. The claws flexing, each of them as big as his fist and sharpened to a point. The muscles rippling up and down the limb.

And then the paw hits him.

Before he knows it he's flying through the air, feeling like he's been hit by a train. Or a paw-sized jumper. He has just enough time to be aware of how much the landing is going to hurt, and then he hits, more on than in the water.

Its like landing on concrete, at speed, and he actually skids along the surface, giving him just enough to think _oh sh—_ before the water gives way and he slides under. He doesn't go under far, because the water's not really that deep, but it _is _enough to make him fully wet instead of only partially, enough for a startling glimpse of the underneath of the water's surface. And he touches the ground with his whole body before he manages to get his hands under him and push himself up.

He comes up spluttering, gasping, not quite sure if he's breathing air or water. He's stinging and aching all over, and he can already tell that tomorrow, he's going to be one all-over bruise.

He has a moment of panic when something grabs onto his vest and pulls him up and out of the water. Probably because he has mental visions of being skewered on one of those giant claws, and he can't hear or see anything through the water clogging his ears and eyes.

He brings up a hand and feels leather. Warm leather. Flesh warmed leather. _Ronon_. Only then does he relax his grip on the P90, the grip that he's somehow managed to retain even with his impromtu dip.

He lets Ronon yank him to his feet, rather than make the struggle up on his own. This is, after all, what a team is about, filling up the empty spaces in each other so that together they make a whole.

Even though he's upright, his ears are still blocked and water is streaming into his eyes from his hair. He needs to clear his ears and brush his hair out of his eyes, but that would mean letting go of either Ronon or his P90, and he's not quite sure yet that the tactical advantage is worth it.

But even with his blocked senses, he can hear the whine of Ronon's gun going off. And feel it, standing this close to Ronon. Its a bright flash of red-white-black in his smeary vision, streaking out and enveloping something huge – and disturbingly close.

The sound of the gun dies away.

There's silence.

Only then does Sheppard dare to let go and swipe at his hair, at the water still streaming down his face. Seriously, for only being dunked for a second, if that, he's as wet as if he's stood under a waterfall for a few minutes. He sniffs and stares at the body of the giant cat...thing...that tried to take a swipe at him. Its floating rather disturbingly close to the DHD. And now that he's slowly coming down from the adrenaline rush, he can appreciate exactly how close he came to being mincemeat.

Said appreciation isn't helped when Rodney comes up and pokes at his vest, and it's only then that he realizes how _very_ close the claws came to him. "Fascinating," Rodney grins at him, poking at one of the slashes in his vest. "The _felis grandia _must have pulled its claws at the last second. I imagine it saw you as little more than a toy. Or like a cat playing with its food."

John stares. He's a toy? Instead, what he says is, "Felis grandia? Really?" Teasing Rodney is a good way to get his mind off his vest. He has slashes running across his vest in a diagonal furrows. Shallow, thank goodness, otherwise he'd have lost everything he's carrying, and some flesh too boot. Still, he looks like he'd argued with a heavy-duty shredder and _lost_. And the back of his head is aching where he hit the water at rather impressive speed. But it's not like he's bleeding or anything, so overall, he counts it as a win in the Sheppard vs Pegasus stakes.

Rodney bobs his head. "Mmm, yes. A rather appropriate name, given its a cousin, if distant one I'll give you, to the _felis catus_, also known as our domestic cat. Actually, I'm rather impressed that this galaxy has such a familiar lifeform, even if the size could do with a little work. No doubt it's something for the soft sciences to ponder."

"Yeah. Actually, no," John shakes his head even as he starts trying to wring out his clothes, "I was just wondering why _you_ named it. I thought that was a job for Botany." Not to mention that they have Rules for this sort of thing.

"What? I speak Latin just as well as any other scientist. Even if it is a dead language."

Ronon interrupts and points behind him. "Gate's waiting." Because he'd really rather not to have to redial. He's pretty sure he stunned the animal, but then he hadn't paused to check what his gun was set to. In any case, he doesn't want to hang around and find out the answer if he doesn't have to.

"I suggest we hurry, in case its mate is nearby," Teyla prompts gently.

"Yeah, yeah," John sighs and gives up on his clothes. They were pretty wet even before his dunking. Now, they're verging on hopeless. At least most of the gear in his vest is waterproof or in waterproof containers. He trudges after his team through the gate, trying to ignore the way his shoes squeak with every step.

He's so far from stealthy right now that he can't even see the goalpost. All he can do is hope that they're not walking into any situation where they'll need to be quiet.

* * *

They stumble out of the gate, a disorganized mess of people instead of the highly organized team they pretend to be. The new planet is hot, just on this side of humid. Grassy. Jungle in the distance. Single sun. Also, distinctly lacking in a knee-high pool of water surrounding the gate and six-foot high cats.

Sounds perfect.

"Wh—Where did you send us?" Sheppard coughs and rubs his chest over his TAC vest. Maybe it's the gate travel, but he's feeling it more on this side than he was before. Damn, but those cats could pack a powerful blow. He starting to know exactly how lucky he was that he was wearing his vest. Otherwise, he's pretty sure he'd be feeling like pounded steak right now, instead of just wrung out.

Rodney's leaning over, panting hard and coming down from his own adrenaline rush. "Uninhabited Planet mark 2." He pauses. "MP8-391. I think."

Ronon just nods. "Has to be better than Big Cat Planet."

Sheppard glares. "You're not allowed to name things...until after the debrief." It's one of the unwritten team rules, actually. Rule 38: No naming 'things' until they can discuss the mission over a meal in the mess. Not that anyone really follows Rule 38 anymore, but its one they like to have around. If only so they can point to it and say 'see?' when the paperwork starts getting threatening.

"Doesn't change what it was," Ronon shrugs, a smirk hovering around his lips.

Sheppard just grunts. He'd make more of a fuss about it, but then he'd have to admit that he's been calling those things "Big Cats" in his own head too and some things aren't worth the fight.

Teyla moves forward a little, standing alert and looking around. "Are you sure this is uninhabited, Rodney?"

"Fairly sure. I mean, its down in the database as uninhabited, although we all know how up to date and relevant _that_ is. For all I know there might be five-star resorts and a booming space-capable civ—"

"Rodney!" Teyla interrupts.

Strangely enough, Teyla's pose reminds Sheppard of a startled meerkat. It's at this point that he realizes that 1) he might be more injured (concussed, maybe?) than he originally thought, and 2) they're not alone.

His day being what it is, it's number two that causes them the most trouble.

It all starts when one of the natives tries to speak to them. Emphasis on the try, because the moment there's sound, everyone crashes to their knees in pain. All that registers is a blur of syllables, a mish-mash of sounds that make _no sense at all_ to John's brain. Trying to listen to it is like trying to fire the P90 one-handed while blindfolded and doing the tango while trying to get dressed...and he's doing it all _backwards_. Its _breaking his brain_ and he can't imagine that anyone else feels any better.

This. Is. _Worse_ than migraine inducing, worse than Wraith-Queen-headache. Its like a hand is squeezing the center of his brain. He has black spots and gray at the edges of his vision. Passing out would be a kindness, but something makes him hang on to consciousness anyway.

He's glad for that, because when he finally manages to look up through tear-smeared vision he sees the spear pointed at his forehead.

* * *

Elizabeth Weir stares at the gate through the windows in her office.

It's not often that she gets her infamous hunches, but she's been in Pegasus long enough to learn to listen to them. She's learned that the hard way. Their first year here was a very steep learning curves, and she was an apt pupil. They all were.

They survived it.

What she feels now is a stirring in her stomach, a kind of leaden weight. It's not fear, nerves, or anything else that she can easily pin down. But it is instinctual, and she has learned to listen.

The gate, however, is not. It stays silent, down the gateroom floor, immune to her mental orders for it to start lighting up. Today, of all days, its not listening.

Her gut chooses that moment to worsen. It reminds her of how she felt just before Ford radioed in with the news the then Major was down with a bug on his neck. Which is what decides her. Obviously something is going on...going _wrong_.

A quick tap of her radio switches it from general to the command channel. "Weir to Lorne."

"This is Lorne." As ever, Sheppard's XO sounds unflappable on the radio. It's an asset, on a base as diverse as this.

And once again, she finds herself giving orders she'd given a year ago, when John's team had been facing down a Super Wraith – but that had been to a different XO. "Major. I want you to put a team on standby for a rescue mission."

There's a moments silence on the other end. She imagines Lorne flipping through the mental list of teams out and their locations, and coming to the logical conclusion. It doesn't take long. Only one team had been down for today's high risk mission, after all. "He's not overdue yet, ma'am."

"I know. Call it a hunch. Call it a drill. Just get ready."

"Yes ma'am."

* * *

They've found, over time – okay, through trial and error – that the Pegasus gate's translation-thing works really really well, to the point of almost instantaneous kind of well. But it kind of needs both parties to travel through the gate at least once, preferably more. Otherwise, listening to other languages feels rather akin to breaking your brain.

At least, that's the reason they use to explain why some first contact missions go to hell so quickly.

It also explains why, right this moment, they're being held at spear-point and have no real idea why.

On the other hand, they've been a team long enough that they really don't need words to communicate. Which helps, because they're being driven through the forest by the isolationist-spear-wielding natives, and every attempt to speak not only results in a headache for everyone, but also a not-so-gentle tap with the spear.

Rodney hunches his shoulders. _This is so not my fault._

Teyla's eyebrow rises. _No one is blaming you, Rodney._

Ronon glowers. _I am._

Sheppard sighs. _Ronon!_ And darts a look at Rodney, then the natives. _And its not Rodney's fault the natives are socially challenged._

Teyla winces. _Or lacking in self control. Do they __have__ to keep talking to each other?_

Rodney smirks a little and. waggles his fingers. _Okay then. Next time Sheppard, __you__ dial when we're coming in hot._

Sheppard shrugs and rolls his shoulders. _Hell with it. Next time, I'm dialing the Alpha Site._ He's also resolutely not looking at his wrist, where his GDO used to be.

The natives had been...very thorough...in stripping them of most of their weapons. Which is probably why Ronon is so...sulky. They'd even found most of his knives. The only real consolation is that they'd been confounded by pockets and Velcro, and had left most of their personal equipment alone – although their packs had disappeared to who knew where.

Having their hands tied – by _vines_, no less – and being forced on this march is just the icing on a very lousy cake.

They've been walking for about an hour, by John's estimate, by the time they finally come to a stop. He knows it must be at least that long, because his socks are now only damp, not wet. And he's also pretty sure his feet will register as a lethal weapon if he could manage to get them out of his boots. Which have finally stopped squeaking.

Did he mention he hates wet feet?

Just for the record, he also hates being forced to kneel. The only reason he lets _Wraith_ get away with it is, you know, the whole mind-control thing they have going. The fact that he's going to have to let it happen _here _is not exactly a precedent he's comfortable setting, but one he's reconciled to nonetheless.

Especially when _he's _the only one pulled away from the safety of his team and made to kneel in the center of the clearing. The only satisfaction he has is that he makes them _work _for his submission.

A few bruises, after all, are a small price to pay for keeping his sense of honor and dignity intact.

When he's finally down, he looks around to take his mind off things. The natives have found a clearing in the forest. There's some kind of hut or hovel at the edge of the clearing, built out of mud and leaves and whatever comes to hand. Maybe its the height of luxury for the planet, or maybe its the latest standard in lean-to's. They don't know, because its the first dwelling they've seen.

The team exchanges covert looks when yet another native comes out of the hut-thing. Gangleader goes right up to him and exchanges words in the native tongue, which for the team, just leads to more wincing and hiding how much it hurts. Falling to their knees once a day is about their limit, especially if there's no Wraith around to facilitate it.

Seriously, when Ancient technology fails, it _really_ fails.

There's more mental bracing when the new native steps closer to them and goes to speak. John doesn't even have to look to know that his team are locking knees just in case.

The new guy points to himself. "I am 'Jemac Gev Ca'."

The expected pain doesn't come. It's such a relief that they almost fall over in gratitude...except for, you know, still being held at spear-point or already kneeling. That tends to put a damper on things.

Sheppard can tell, by the feeling in his head, that the native is speaking a shortened form of the trade language, and the gate is (finally) doing the translating between his ears and his brain. More to the point, this is similar enough to so many first contacts rituals that this part is kind of instinctual. In Pegasus, the first thing to do is let people know your name – that way, if the Wraith take you, at least there is someone to remember who you are and where you were.

He lets himself relax. Finally, something that doesn't break his brain and is also vaguely familiar. He lifts his tied hands and manages to point to himself well enough. To make things easier, he speaks the trade language himself. "I am 'John Sheppard'." He shoots a pointed look at the rest of his team and a raised eyebrow, and gets vague shrugs in return. Obviously, they're perfectly willing to let him take the lead and will only introduce themselves if they have to. He gives them a mild glare and turns back. _Cowards_.

Jemac looks behind him. "And them?"

It's all Sheppard can do to restrain his smirk. _Told you._

Rodney does the little bob of his head and hand wave. "Rodney McKay."

Ronon just stares. "Ronon Dex."

Teyla does a dignified nod that looks, to John's eye, like a shortened version of the Athosian head-touch. "Teyla Emmagan."

Jemac nods solemnly, then gestures to his people. "We are 'Dylos' people."

Sheppard does a similiar gesture to his team. "We are 'Lantean' people." He's learned, over the years, both from his own experience and from watching diplomats, that it's best to mimic other peoples' way of talking and acting as much as possible. Besides, he has a feeling that trying to explain the difference between Earth, Athos, and Sateda would be a bit too much at this stage in the conversation.

"The Able One tells me you take talk away, make it hurt. Even to each other, we hurt."

Sheppard nods slowly. If he was understanding that right, the failure in the gate's tech had affected even the natives' ability to communicate with each other in their own language. Which is a problem, because usually this kind of failure only affected those listening, not speaking, and particularly those listening who hadn't learned the language. But how he's going to explain _that_, he has no idea.

"You cause this?"

Rule 9: Never admit direct fault if at all possible while off-world. "Not really."

Jemac growled softly, a look of frustration crossing his face. "Explain."

Sheppard breathes deep and goes for it. "Yes, we came through the gate. But no, we didn't cause the problem you're having with communicating. We—"

"Stop. No know what mean."

_Right. Make it _more_ simple, John._ He takes a breath, holds it, lets it go. And wonders when exactly he got stuck with the job of being chief negotiator and translator. That's _Teyla's_ job for a reason. "Which words?"

"What is 'gate'?" Jemac waves his hand. "Is it a...feeling, like hate? And what is this come-thing?"

Sheppard blinks. _Its like talking in simple English to kids _– _or trying to teach someone English. _At least now he has his benchmark for what words to use. What does it say about him that he's done this before? In another planet, another galaxy, another _life_, but he's done this before. "The...come-thing is big word for talking, like we do now. A 'gate' is a...thing to walk through, like a door but outside."

Jemac nods wisely. "Ah, we learn from each other. This is good. Maybe we not choose you for gods."

Internally Sheppard feels very alarmed, but he's been at this diplomacy game long enough to know the value of a poker face. "Gods?" he queries, hoping its not what he thinks it is. In his experience, religion plus malfunctioning Ancient tech plus his team is _not _a good mix.

"We ask gods for help as talk has gone."

Seriously, is he the only one with a bad feeling about this? "Sorry for my not knowing, Jemac, but how does one ask the, uh, gods this?"

Jemac shrugs. "Usual way. As you are ones who take talk, one of you must go to gods for us to get talk back."

Sheppard licks his lips. Obviously, this is going to go down as one of the more interesting negotiations he's ever conducted. "Can you...help me learn more?"

Jemac nods, as serene as ever. "You go to gods. Gods will thank us for offer and give us talk again."

Giddy. What he's feeling is giddiness. Either that or the desire to hit his head against something. _Sacrifice. He means a sacrifice. Kill us all off until they can talk again._ There are seriously _not enough words_ to explain how this is going to fail. Especially not with such a limited vocabulary. The gate could _not_ have picked a better time to fail on them if it tried.

But he has to try anyway. Elizabeth's going to kill him for breaking Rule 7, the one about not mentioning superior tech off-world, but he'd rather be alive to break it. And since the word for 'gate' is out, he has to think of another way to say this... "Do you...know of the ring?"

"Ring?"

Oh. God. How to say it simply? "You walk it to other places, and has...push-thing beside it." Also? He's _so_ ignoring Rodney right now.

"Ring of Old Ones. Yes. I walk it many times. Is how I learn...ring talk."

Sheppard nods. 'Ring talk' is a close enough synonym for the Pegasus trade language. But he's working on a hypothesis here, and he has just one more question to prove it. "Are you the only one here who has?"

"Yes. What does my walking the ring have to do with gods taking talk?"

Yeah. It was what he thought. "The ring of old ones helps _you_ know our talk, as _we _come from other side of ring. But, um, it can only help those who walk it." He bites his lip. This will sound stupid, but it has to be said and he can't think of any other way to say it with the words he's heard Jemac use so far. "It is why you no hurt and others do."

Jemac is silent for a long moment before he finally nods slowly. "Wait. I say words to Able One, see what say."

With that, he stands and goes back into the hovel – hut? – and is immediately followed by the one Sheppard had designated as Gangleader. Maybe the Gangleader is actually this Able One, or there is communication equipment in the hut to talk to this...person. Right now, the day's been strange enough that John wouldn't bet on anything.

There is one benefit, though. Once the two of them are gone, he's quite unceremoniously prodded to his feet and back to his team. He's not exactly complaining. He could do with the company and the conversation.

"Fantastic explanation, Sheppard," Rodney gripes in a low voice. "Really. Absolutely _stunning_. My _neice_ could probably even explain it just as well."

Okay, maybe not so much the conversation. Sheppard just rolls his eyes, and then purposely uses the big words because, hey, now _he can_. "Hmm. Okay. Next time we do first contact with another civilization with limited language skills, _you_ can try explaining the problem with the gate translation teledecoder switch."

Teyla sighs. "I happen to think John explained it very well. Considering."

John eyes her. _Considering what?_ But that's one of those questions he's learned not to ask for the sake of the team, so he lets it drop. Especially not when there's more pressing things to talk about. "Speaking of which," he turns to Teyla, and asks the question that's been on his mind pretty much since the beginning, "why didn't you take over? You're better at this sort of thing then I am."

Teyla bites her lip. "True." And then she makes a face. "But I have heard rumours of these sorts of tribes. They are insular in nature, and the representives they send out in trade rarely do well, for various reasons. One thing I am sure of is that they would not take well to a female negotiating while there are men present."

Ronon snorts his opinion of that. He's _seen_ Teyla negotiate, and knows exactly how tough she can be across the table.

She smiles. "Thank-you for the vote of confidence, Ronon. But I am afraid it is not a matter of recognition of skill, as it is gender and leadership."

"So you're saying that they accepted Sheppard as negotiator because he is both male and our team leader," Rodney says, looking a little put out.

"Don't worry, Rodney, next time, we'll introduce you first," Sheppard says easily, knowing that he'll do that over his own dead body. In Pegasus, its always the leader – the one held responsible for the actions of the others – who's introduced first.

"In this case, it also likely means," Teyla continues quietly, "that either John or I will be held responsible for what happens with the negotiations."

It is at this auspicious moment that Jemac and the leader walk out of the hovel-hut thing. And Sheppard is once again prodded away from his team and back towards the center of the clearing, although this time he's not made to kneel. Small mercies, and all that.

The leader person is silent, but stares at them balefully. He either doesn't like them, or doesn't like the decision that was made within the hut.

At this point, Sheppard's fairly sure the feelings going to be mutual, but is still willing to wait it out. (Elizabeth, he has the irreverent thought, would be so proud of how patient he's being.)

Jemac has a regretful look for a moment, then his face clears and he speaks. "Only one way to know if you lie. We send one to gods. If talking still gone, we know you not lie."

Yeah, okay. So it _is_ mutual. And what he really wants to do at this point is scream and shout about how unreasonable they're being. But he knows better than most that he can't change the world, can't change the _galaxy_, let alone a tribe's worldview in under five minutes. The best he can do is plan for how they're going to survive the next five minutes themselves. And what does it say about him that part of him is already planning which of his team would best survive this 'go to gods' thing?

Not that he's given much of a choice.

Gangleader – the Able One? – makes a gesture, and suddenly there's more spears then ever pointed at the team. Another gesture, and they're specifically pointing at, it looks like, Sheppard and Teyla. He says something, that makes pretty much everyone cringe and wince, and Jemac translates, "The talker."

The spear shifts. "You." This time its definite who its pointing to.

Still, Sheppard figures he can try for a little wriggle room. Maybe just a little. He raises his eyebrows and points to himself exaggeratedly – because body language is universal, and he figures he's not the only one with a pounding head and teary vision right now. "Me?" As if it was a surprise. Which it isn't. Not really.

This time the spear is thrust, not shifted to the side. "_You_."

"Okay, okay, I'm going."

He has absolutely no illusions about why _he's_ the one pulled out from his team and told to move. Its happened often enough, both here in Pegasus and back on Earth, that he has the basic reasons down pat. He's been in Pegasus long enough to know that being the leader _and _having the ATA gene can be like having a target painted on your back. Of course, his luck being what it is, sometimes its something else entirely. One memorable time it was because of how he looked – which he _still_ wouldn't have lived down, if not for the fact that most of the people present then are dead or in another galaxy.

The thing is though, up to a certain point, Sheppard's entirely willing to go along with this "go to gods" thing. He's done both more and worse in the name of diplomatic relations since coming to this galaxy. He can only hope it isn't as...drastic as it sounds. And that if he shows a willingness to go along with this thing, he can still salvage something out of this later – or maybe one of the others can. At this point, he's not picky.

That meager hope is the only reason why he lets the natives – Dylosians – prod him, once again at spear-point, through the jungle on yet another forced march. The consolation prize is that his team get to come along – although he hopes they're coming strictly as observers, not participants.

Without his watch – or rather, access to his watch – it's hard to estimate exactly how long they walk, or for how far. But he estimates that its about half an hour, judging by how long it takes his calves to complain. He's fit, but not for walking through a jungle _without a trail_.

His rather determined focus on his feet and keeping his balance – who knew his hands were so vital? – is why he doesn't notice they've stopped halfway through yet another clearing until he literally bumps into the guy in front. He stumbles back and bites his lip to avoid muttering an apology, having learned the hard way that that way a migraine lies. A glance back shows his team fare no better, and Rodney...looks properly apoplectic trying and mainly succeeding in not speaking.

He looks up to find Jemac holding a hand. "They come no far. This part is for one who goes to gods."

Yeah. Showtime.

All he can do is stand there and watch as his team are led away...without him, and surrounded by natives.

He's left with his own posse, led by two natives that he's mentally calling Tweedledee and Tweedledum – so obviously the Dylosian's "heavys" – that he doubts his ability to defeat them on his own. Maybe with help (with his _team_), he'd have a fighting chance, but by himself? Already a little bit battered and with his hands tied?

All that's left to do, really, is wait to see is which of them moves first.

Or, really, who blinks first. And its _not_ going to be him.

* * *

The jumper bursts through the gate and quickly cloaks. But it doesn't take Lorne long to realise the futility of that action. There's nothing here.

Well, okay. There is. There's just nothing _alive_. At least now he knows what happened to their wayward team.

"Is that...?" someone asks from behind him. One of the Marines, maybe.

Lorne stares at the body of the giant cat, floating and bobbing gently in the water near the DHD. "Well," he drawls, "guess that answers why they're late."

"Yes, yes," answers Zalenka, absently shoving his glasses back up his nose with a finger. "But where is team?"

That, Lorne decides, is the question of the hour. Or maybe the day. "Doc, how long will it take to get the addresses?"

He can hear the shrug from here. "Mmm. Depends. Did cat hit DHD? Is console damaged? Many factors to consider."

"Docccc..." he drawls.

"Hour. Maybe less." Which is better than the answer he gave when Ford had captured the team. That had been days. Hours...is better. At least now they have practice at this.

Although, getting the addresses is the easy part. Then they only have to correlate the DHD's addresses with today's Random List. Yeah. With a sigh, Lorne looks for a place to park. _Might as well get this show on the road._

* * *

Turns out that "going to gods" is an euphemism for being tossed over a cliff. Emphasis on the tossed part.

Sheppard promptly decides that Elizabeth will agree with him that diplomacy goes only so far and will forgive him for wanting to _survive_ to be diplomatic. He settles into the Athosian stance of open unarmed combat and waits, doing his best to ignore the fact that his arms are tied behind him. Right now, that's the least of his worries.

He ducks under the first native who gets too far into his personal space, which at the moment, he figures he's allowed to extend to about half the size of the clearing. He's already too close to the cliff, and they'll need half an army to get him any closer.

_Note to self, don't kick with hands tied._ On one hand, there's one less Dylosian. On the other hand, he overbalances. Thankfully, he has enough just enough time before the next native approaches to recover. Maybe they're used to fighting one-on-one? For someone used to fighting Wraith or Marines-ala-melee, its frightfully _boring_.

And one of the natives gets tired of his ducking and weaving and unsheathes a knife. He almost grins, but doesn't, because now he actually has a plan and he's not stupid enough to telegraph it. He's done enough unarmed practicing against Ronon that it should almost be like taking candy from a baby. Except where its not, because he'd never thought to practice _with his arms tied_. Yeah. Okay. Definitely something to add to the roster.

Keeping an eye on Knife Guy, he works his way through the next two Dylosians to try to approach him, backing slowly and giving ground in Knife Guy's direction as if it's all accidental. Which it's not. When he judges he's close enough, he suddenly goes low and swings out in a leg sweep.

It works. Knife Guy goes down in a heap, dropping the knife on the way down.

He rolls for it, catching it awkwardly underneath him, more on the blade than the handle.

On the one hand, he has a _knife_. On the other, he's _on the ground with his hands tied_. He's at more of a disadvantage than ever right now, and he figures they all know it. That much is clear, going by the way the remaining Dylosians eye him and then finally decide its time to try out group attacks.

It's like being at the bottom of a puppy pile.

Or really, it's like playing Twister, except he's the mat and there's no timer.

He squirms as best he can, kicking out as much as possible while frantically working the blade on the vines around his wrists. It's slower than he likes, not only because he can't see what the hell he's doing, but also because the vines have tightened. He's pretty sure his wrists will resemble raw meat by the time he's done.

Finally, he feels the ropes—_vines_—part under the knife. Jerking his hands apart separates what remains of the vines around his wrists, and at long last his hands are free and he can fight.

Just in time to defend himself against a haymaker coming right for his jaw. He grabs the punch and twists to the side, barely managing to deflect the fist. It thuds down to the earth beside his ear, and he swears to himself that he can feel the reverberation throughout his whole body. Or maybe it just feels that way.

He brings up his knee in retaliation, catching one of the Dylosians where it hurts the most. A quick glance around tells him he has one more native and the two heavies, Tweedledee and Tweedledum.

The third-last native is, relatively, easily dispatched. Or maybe its all those sparring matches with Ronon and Teyla paying off.

And then its just him and Tweedledee and Tweedledum. Joy.

These two, despite his mental nicknames for them, are no slouches in the upstairs department. At least, they know enough to attack him en masse and use their size to their advantage. Dammit, its like fighting two brick walls.

Brick walls that fight back and know all his weak spots.

He knows now why the others were so easy to put down. They were just the entrees and these are the main course, softening him up and wearing him down for these two. Still, anyone who knows him also knows that surrender isn't a part of his vocabulary. He's committed to this course and he'll see it through, and not just because he has no desire to see the bottom of a cliff up close and personal. He has his team to get back to, _Atlantis_ to get back to, and really, that's all the motivation he ever needs.

The only advantage on his side is the knife he still, somehow, holds. He holds it the way the Air Force never taught him but a lifetime of dirty fights did. By the handle with the blade back against his arm, edge out, and his other arm further forward to block and prevent easy access to his only weapon.

Some skills, you never quite forget.

He keeps himself to light slashes with the knife, blocking and defending more than attacking. It's a sign of his skill that he doubts the other two would appreciate. Even at this point, he'd like not to have to kill if he doesn't have to. Soon, his two Tweedle's are more cut than he is, and he's almost out of the clearing and back on the semi-trail out of here.

He's backing up, almost out of the stupid clearing, when something somewhere shifts and all of a sudden he's staring directly into the sun. Its off-putting enough that he squints, half raises his unarmed hand before he catches himself, but its enough that he loses the flow of the fight.

When he refocuses, he realizes he's lost one of the Tweedles.

He's starting to the turn to find him, when he finds out the hard way by a knee to the kidney. _One of them must circled around me_, he thinks fleetingly, even as he's gasping in pain and dropping to his knees. It's not normally so much of a show-stopper, but today's a day when he's already hit things with his back at high speed, and his back is like _one big bruise_ already. The knee to the back is like a spike driving right into his brain, and it kind of blacks him out. A little. Or maybe a lot. Or maybe there's no maybe about it.

By the time he's back online and processing again – and yeah, he's been hanging around Rodney too long if he's thinking like a computer – he knows he was out too long. He's lost the advantage. He's held down, by too many hands, and its all he can do to just breathe against the ground. His heart is pounding and he's gasping in what breaths he can, all too aware he's on this side of hyperventilation but not too inclined to stop. He has far too many memories of what comes next from being in this kind of position and its never pleasant.

This time doesn't disappoint.

The hands shift a little, his body tingles before it goes numb, and he mentally curses. They've found all his pressure points, and now he can't fight back even if they let him go. They pick him up, tightening their grip enough to leave yet more bruises. He's going to look like a _roadmap_ by the time this stupid's missions over.

And then he goes over the cliff. Tossed. Literally.

It seems like he falls for forever.

All he can do is watch. His body's still numb. But in the end he closes his eyes. Some things, he doesn't want to see.

When he finally lands, all he can hear is the _snap_ of his own bones breaking. The pain of that is so great that it pushes him into the darkness.

* * *

Radek hums to himself, pleased with how easy it is to capture the dialed addresses from this DHD. With the dead body helpfully pushed aside and now floating away now that its not jammed against the DHD, this isn't a bad work-space. And the DHD is almost _helpful_, eager to give him the information he requests. Maybe it is...lonely? Is that the word?

"Doccc..."

It's not the first time Radek's heard the drawn out word this mission, and he suspects it won't be last. He keeps working anyway. Long exposure to McKay makes him immune to verbal volleys. On the scale of McKay insults, 'Doc' ranks about negative one-oh-five.

"_Doc!_"

Okay, maybe not in that tone. He looks up sharply, his hands freezing on the laptop. And gulps.

There. Is. A. Big. Cat. Staring. At. Him. The mate of the dead one that was at the DHD, maybe?

"Don't. Move," he hears someone order, terse with command.

_Hloupý blázen. Jaký druh idiot je ten?_ he thinks to himself derisively. Of _course_ he's not going to move. Moving is by far the last thing on his mind.

Although...if this is anything like earth felines, maybe he could just reach the crystal he was working on and flash a beam of light into the creature's eyes... It might be a sufficient _rozptýlení_ – distraction? – for the Marines to do something...

He eyes the distance critically. He gathers a breath. His fingers twitch. And he leaps.

"Zelenka!"

* * *

"I'm sure he's fine."

Rodney snorts. "Well, wherever he is, he's doing better than we are."

Teyla nods slowly. For relative degrees of 'better', on that she agrees with the scientist.

Being pushed off a cliff, even at spear-point, _has_ to be better than this. It reminds her a lot of Olesia. Except, you know, better. They're tied up pretty much the same way, hands in front, elbows to rods behind their backs, and necks tied to the same rod. Each movement feels like being slowly choked.

Except this time the Dylosians have cages...one for each of them. Far too small to stand or lie down, so the most they can do is kneel if they feel like getting off their backsides. Or curl up in a ball, but that feels too vulnerable. And, they're being held in a tent, not a building about to fall down around their ears.

Rodney opens his mouth, then hesitates for a long moment. His words, when they come, are forced, and not because of the collar around his neck. "Do you think he—"

"Of course," Teyla interrupts swiftly. Because there is no other option believable. Of course Sheppard survived this 'gods' thing. He had to. He _has_ to.

Ronon says nothing but shifts in his own cage, clenching and unclenching his fists. As much as he hates being helpless, this enforced stillness, he knows all too well the benefits of patience. Of waiting for an opportunity, then striking, fast and deadly. He thinks of himself like a _tokrib_, coiled, silent, deadly.

He will wait. And then he will strike.

* * *

In another tent in the Dylosian village, a much more somber conversation is being held.

"You are not comfortable with this," Elod da Dev, the Dylosian 'Able One' states calmly.

Jemac Gev Ca sips slowly at the hot drink in his hands, as much as to avoid answering as to think how to phrase it. One doesn't disagree with his village's Able One lightly. "You know my feelings on this," he finally answers.

"They are not the only ones you have not been able to talk with," Elod says astutely, leaning over to absently draw in the dust left by many feet. And notes that soon they'll have to move their encampment if they want the ground to recover, and leave no trace for the Wraith.

"No."

"I suspected as much."

"Then why—"

A dry shrug. "Because forms must be observed." At least this way, the three are under her protection. And this is the only they can challenge the leadership of Benaj Pat Lo, who'd led the team who'd met the offworlders and is getting rather more...annoying, of late.

"And if the offworlder is like the other three, he will survive it."

"That too."

* * *

It's not the dunking that annoys Radek Zelenka, although coming up coughing and spluttering to see the body of a giant cat under a meter away from him is definitely something he _will_ remember. In his nightmares. For weeks.

It is such a shock, in fact, that he lets out a stream of czech curses and scrambles back.

"Its dead, Doc."

"You sure?" he queries, eying it doubtfully.

"Yep. Sorry about your glasses though."

"My— Oh." In his fright, he'd not noticed that his dunking had broken his glasses across the nose. And since they are still on his ears, he is sure he must look a sight. He glares at the Marine, and since he learned his glares from the knee of the McKay, he knows how to work them. "Tape," he demands.

The Marine quickly backs down. "Uh...tape?"

"For glasses. Now," he says firmly, extending his hand and making grabbing motion.

"Right. Sorry, Doc."

Its quickly handed over, and it doesn't take long for his glasses to be repaired. For a field repair, it will do until he can get back to Atlantis and do something more permanent. _If only I could do the same for the DHD_, he thinks mournfully, looking at what remains of his work-space.

Lorne jogs over, looking concerning, grip still tight on his weapon. "You guys okay?"

Zelenka sighs and absently rubs his glasses on his shirt. He has a feeling he will be answering this question for many days. "Yes, yes, _skvělý_," he says, hoping his tone conveys his sarcasm.

By Lorne's expression it does. "How soon will you be finished, Doc?"

He snorts. "Hours. The _velká kočka_, giant cat, yes? It destroy things. Will have to re-establish connection, re-test it. Then extract. Hours," he nods firmly.

The Major eyes the bodies of the two cats and makes his decision. "See if you can pull the crystals without destroying the data, doc. We'll do the extracting off-planet."

Zelenka's eyes light up at the challenge. "_Velký!_ Is great idea!" He turns back to the DHD, working feverishly, dreaming of his lab and a warm shower.

Lorne doesn't have the heart to tell him that their destination will probably be the Gamma Site. He's not going back to Atlantis until he has Sheppard's team back.

* * *

When he wakes, it doesn't immediately register where he is, what's happened. What _does_ register is something more immediate.

There's something on his face. Dripping into his face. His eyes. His nose. His mouth.

Water.

Rain. It's raining?

Water. And he's _thirsty_.

His tongues darts out to touch, to taste. And comes back with steel. Steel laced water.

Bloody water.

Blood...from him?

Where...?

How long was he out of it?

He doesn't know. Its a blank place in his memory, an emptiness with nothing to fill it.

Then he breathes, and, yeah, okay, not good.

He's in trouble. Just _breathing_ is an effort, sends sharp pains through his left chest wall. Obviously, the fall did something to him – more than just broken ribs, although he wouldn't be too surprised if he has that too. The sad thing is, he's been here before, and he's pretty sure he knows exactly what's happened.

Gently, careful not to jostle or in anyway use the arm on the side where the pain is worse, he sends his right hand in a querying touch of his left shoulder. It doesn't take long to confirm his worst fears. Even through the TAC vest, he can feel the bump in his shoulder, the place where bone fractured when body met rock.

Collarbone 0, rock 1.

Or, really, Sheppard 0, cliff 1.

Blowing out a soft sigh, he lets his good hand fall to the side and gives himself a moment to lie here. In the rain. In pain. Later, when he's with his team, he can be stoic, he can be Colonel High Pain Threshold Sheppard, but right now he's alone, he's saturated, and he's in pain. He can allow himself this moment to feel, to hurt, before he shoves the pain away into its box.

Especially since he knows that getting his arm immobilized is going to a bitch, and, given the choice, he'd rather not feel that. Or, rather, he will, but he knows the techniques so that he won't. Much.

The first tier of pain suppression is _replacement:_ to replace the emotion with something else. Adrenaline is the easiest, usually. And he knows exactly how to produce the required rush, despite being stuck on a ledge on a cliff, with no way off unless he does something about his shoulder. It's what he's been trained for, after all, even if he doesn't care to remember said training. Or how he learned what the training couldn't teach him.

It's not the easiest (nicest) thing in the world, after all, to learn the precise limits of one's threshold of pain...or how to surpass it.

Not that he's going to be doing much surpassing today. Just immobilizing.

Yeah.

First, though, he has to get some adrenaline flowing. Which is where his imagination, and experience, comes in. One thing the last few years has given him, is plenty of mental fodder. He closes his eye, clenches the fist of his good hand to help with the testosterone flow, and lets the images come.

It's not long before he feels the tightness in his chest and shortness of breath that herald a good rush. He opens his eyes and, yeah, he's got the whole clarity of vision thing going. He feels like he can almost _see through _the raindrops, if he could just concentrate enough.

Yeah. He's high. He's plenty high. High enough to do what he has to do, and have some left over.

He breathes in. Breathes out. Reaches over and grabs his left arm with his right. Breathes in. Then, before he can tell himself its a stupid idea, he shoves his bad hand into the opening of his TAC vest, against the zipper.

He's cursing a blue streak the entire time. Knows it. Doesn't bother stopping it. Because pain suppression is just that...suppression. Doesn't mean the pain isn't there. Doesn't mean that his shoulder isn't going to hurt to kingdom come when he finally comes down from the rush.

Which is why the second tier of pain suppression is _expression:_ to let the pain out instead of letting it fester inside the mind. And why he's still cursing when he zips up his vest.

Now, he just has to get off the stupid ledge.

Well, okay, he has two options. He can go up, or he can go down. Either way, he's going to have to free-climb with what amounts to a bum shoulder. _Yay. So not what I signed up for._ Then again, he'd done his basic training on what turned out to be a broken foot, so this should be comparatively easy.

Yeah. Right.

In the end, he chooses to go up. It means less stress on his shoulder, for relative degrees of 'less'. Going up, his legs do most of the work: supporting himself while he searches for a hand-hold and then pushing his body up. Going down, he would've had to hang on while his feet did the searching, and that alone was a definite no-go with one shoulder out of action.

So up it is.

It just means that by the time he pushes himself up over the top, his thighs and calves are burning, bordering on cramping, and he's never been so grateful for all those runs with Ronon in his life. His legs are in the best shape of his life, and it shows. He knows all to well that this is a climb he would never have made had he still been on Earth, under the standard Air Force exercise routine.

That's the irony of the Pegasus galaxy: running from the Wraith is the best exercise routine _ever_. Hardly any members of the off-world teams are fat. Hell, its the same with all the natives they encounter. At least the Wraith don't like them for the quality of their meat.

But, now that he's finally above ground, he has another choice. He can go to the gate, or he can go the village. He can either go in with his men at his back, or go after his team himself. Reinforcements, or go solo.

He doesn't even really think deeply about it, before his steps turn towards the village, towards his team.

If nothing else, he can always claim he was doing recon before checking back in.

He knows he's made the right choice when he catches a glint of metal out of the corner of his eye, at the edge of the trail. Keeping hold of his elbow to keep his left arm close to his body and thus prevent his collarbone shifting too much, he carefully kneels down to investigate. And grins.

What caught his eye is a knife one of the natives dropped on their way back to the village. Or maybe it's the one he dropped in the fight, he doesn't really remember. In any case, it's not much, but at least now he'll be armed.

_Finally, something in this day is going right._ He lets go of his arm long enough to grab the knife and push it into his belt.

Carefully rising to his feet, he waits out the headrush and then keeps going. Somewhere at the end of this trail is his team. And he intends to find them.

* * *

When it happens, it happens quickly. There's no warning.

Benaj Pat Lo bursts into the tent of the Able One, backed up by the group of men he'd met the offworlders with.

At first Elod da Dev isn't worried, despite the fact that it's all her village's troublemakers in one spot. One does not, after all, rise to the rank of Able One without learning how to stay calm in all sorts of situations. She calmly puts down her cup of tea. Not even the fact that they are all carrying the strange pointing devices the offworlders had been carrying is enough to worry her. They mean nothing to her.

"Elod da Dev, we ask you relinquish your place and hand the offworlders over to us."

One eyebrow rises in response to their height of disrespect in addressing her without her title. But all she says in answer is, "No."

"We won't ask again."

She narrows her eyes. This is getting annoying. "My answer is the same."

They point the pointing-device-thing near her and do...something. She can't quite see what, and, moments later, she's grateful for that.

The sound of the...thing...discharging is loud and bright in her ears and she hears something whistle past her ears. This...noisemaker...is disconcerting. And worrying. She can see why the offworlders were carrying these. They must make a good deterrent against the Wraith.

The troublemakers have made their point. But even in defeat, she is graceful. She gathers her robes and passes them by as she leaves _her_ tent, making a point of looking each of them in the eye.

It is a hollow victory that none of these...usurpers...can maintain eye contact for long.

Her stride is long and confident, forcing them to catch up to. This too is hollow.

Her steps falter only a little when she realizes that she cannot see Jemac anywhere. She _knows_ Benaj, knows his opinion of her and Jemac. He's likely already sent her Jemac to the gods already, and not the compassionate way she sent the offworlder one they called "John". No. He'll have used the Colac ca Loc...the Fall From Which None Return.

She forces her stride to resume. This time, she lets Benaj led. It's to no one's surprise that he takes to the Yeman tent, the one with the cages where they are keeping the offworlders. His only deference to her former position is that he ties her hands in front, makes her kneel, and then ties her hands to a spike he drives personally into the ground.

She knows better than most that she's going nowhere. There's a reason the village uses Benaj to swing the hammer and drive the tent pegs in whenever they move camp.

All Elod da Dev can do now is stare at the offworlders, all too aware of the language difficulties. There is no way she can communicate just how badly this day has gone for them and will go.

* * *

Given that they're the rescue team, Lorne tries not to think too deeply about how close they are to missing their own check-in as he dials the jumper's DHD. Or about why he chose himself for a task that could nominally be done by any other soldier in his command.

"AR2 to base, this is Lorne. How goes the line-dancing?" Even as he asks the question, he grimaces. Even though he understands and approves the need for security questions, sometimes the combinations are just ridiculous. Which is the point.

"This is base, we receive you AR2. And the dancing is lighting up the barn. How go you?"

At this, Lorne relaxes. 'Light' and 'barn' are the okay signals. If there'd been a reference to 'razing' or 'house', that'd been this week's sign of trouble on base and not to continue talking. Or, given that he has the feeling he's acting military commander, to drop everything and come back. "We're on stand-down at the Gamma Site, had to leave MX4-028 in a hurry."

"Wraith?" Elizabeth immediately asks.

"No ma'am. Large fauna, hostile feline variety. Looks like the Colonel's team ran afoul of at least one of them on their way to the gate. I have the scientists working on data we extracted from the DHD, trying to figure out where they went."

There's a small pause before Elizabeth comes back. "Keep at it, Major. If you can't make the first hop within three hours, I want you back here." Because if the team's traveled through more than one gate, then they've been taken by hostiles and they'll need all of Atlantis' resources to get them back.

"Yes ma'am. AR2 out."

* * *

Its dark by the time Sheppard reaches the village.

It's lit by flickering torches placed strategically around, and a big bonfire or brazier thing in the middle of the campsite. Its hard to tell exactly what it is from where he's crouching, but if it's anything like other Pegasus villages, it's bright, portable, and easily extinguishable.

Trying to get an idea of the layout of the village is hard from where he is. There are little things like _tents_ in his line of sight.

He has no idea where his team is in all that. That should probably worry him more than it does.

What he's more concerned about is staying far enough away that he can't hear anyone and thus can't get a crippling headache. He's found, by trial and error, that if he stays just out of earshot, he has no problem. Any closer, then he's on his knees and begging for mental release –or painkillers. Nice. Big. Painkillers. Good ones.

So he stays further back, and its all good. Here, all he has to worry about is _how_ he's going to do the rescue.

His trouble is they were basically stripped of their equipment by the "friendly" natives, which includes their packs. John has no idea where his pack is. All he has left is what is in his pockets, which seemed to confound the natives enough that they left them alone.

Thank goodness for BDUs and an abundance of pockets. Still, if he wants to mount a rescue – which he definitely does – he's going to have to do it with what he's got on him.

Atlantis being what it is, he's limited not by what he can carry, but by what the Quartermaster at the SGC sees fit to send them _and _by how well that spreads around his men. He absolutely refuses to send his men out without some necessary tool just because someone forgot to count or because his rank just happens to be higher.

He crashes to his knees more than falls, catching himself only enough not to jar his collarbone too badly, and starts rooting through his multitude of pockets and pouches. Surely, somewhere in here, he has _something _useful.

_Vest_. Binoculars. Life-signs detector. Field trauma bandages – complete with in-built gauze, one size of which does _not _fit all. Notebook. Pen and Sharpie. Fire starter kit. Waterproof matches. LED torch. Ammo clips for the P90, the 9mil – neither weapon he actually _has _anymore, thanks to over-enthusiastic natives.

_Pants_. Wire coil. Cables. Mini wire stripper slash pliers. Cork – good for stopping bottles, canteens, _and _making a homemade Shiv with a bit of wire. Leatherman. Tape. 100 mile tape. Two cigarrette lighters.

_Extras_. Assorted miscellaneous, like paperclips, pocket lint, cotton, chewing gum. Powerbars. Epi-pens.

He also has an MRE, but, yeah, no. If anything, he would be more interested in convincing the Dylosians to eat it than wasting the time eating it himself.

And, he has one slightly used knife.

The question is, what can he make with all this...junk...that would help him mount a rescue, winged as he is? With the added stipulation that the closer he gets to the village, the less he wants to hear?

* * *

They've been hearing gunshots throughout the long afternoon and evening. The lulls between the weapons fire is just long enough that they jump everytime that they start up again. Its entirely disconcerting, knowing that the shots are coming from their own weapons.

Rodney shifts when the gunfire starts up again. "What are they doing," he mutters, aggrieved, "trying to see how long it takes to empty one of those clips on single-shot? Seriously, if they want to know, they could just _ask_. Typical power-hungry idiots. Only interested in the next big boom."

The phrase 'just ask' triggers a thought in Teyla's mind, and she feels like kicking herself for not thinking of it earlier. Though, to be fair, she's been too worried about John. She turns to their new companion and slips easily into the trade language of Pegasus. "Do you know the..." and here she has to pause to think of the words John used to refer to the trade language earlier, "...um, ring talk?"

Elod nods slowly, and replies in kind. "Some. Not as much as Jemac. He learn me."

"Oh, great," Rodney snarks, in English. "Conversation for simpletons. What's next? Negotiations for morons?"

"Rodney. That is enough," Teyla says sharply, when the headache recedes enough that she can talk. At the moment, intel is what they need the most. She turns back to their new companion. "I am 'Teyla Emmagen'. I lead my people."

"I am 'Elod da Dev'. I was our 'Able One'."

"Was?"

"The one who lead those who find you," Elod clenches her fists, wanting to gesture in frustration of how _hard_ it is to communicate this way, but unable. If this is the trade talk, she has to wonder how people get anything _done_. "He is 'Benaj Pat Lo'. He...step me down and put here."

"Why?"

"I say..." she hisses abruptly, frustrated anew at this language. "I say to Jemac," she says slowly, as it's a process to translate from Dylosian to this 'ring talk', "to send yours to gods over short fall."

Ronon interrupts them then, speaking just as slowly, "You saying that you sent our man over a _cliff_?"

Elod nods. Slowly. Apologetically. "If by it you mean fall over edge, yes."

"Right," he growls and begins working in earnest on his bonds.

"To go to gods is to go over. But I say send to short one, so he may come back."

"May?" Teyla pursues, as ever alert to phrasing.

Elod nods again. "It has be that way before. If your man come in time, I step down Benaj, send you back." She pauses a moment and eyes Ronon. "By ring, not fall."

Teyla nods thoughtfully. There is just one last thing she's wondering about. "If I may, Able One, if you have all this plan, then why...step down when Benaj come to you?"

The Dylosian shrugs eloquently. "They had these noise things. Like Jemac say you had. I not say no to that."

Teyla's eyes widen. Its a _coup d'état_, as she has heard the Terrans refer to it, and they're caught in the middle. Worse, its being enforced with the team's weapons. And the weird part is, they're probably going to end up fighting back.

Elizabeth is going to _kill_ them.

Elod confirms Teyla's worst fears. "Benaj may be kill Jemac already. Me next. Then you. Your...John is only hope."

* * *

It's not the best plan in the world, sneaking in to what amounts to an enemy encampment _with his ears blocked_.

But it's either this or suffer through headaches and head-bashing, and he'd rather prefer his skull intact. Well, as intact as it is, considering it's been aching since he hit the water earlier today and all the headaches and impacts since haven't helped any.

Still, it's the tactical equivalent of the Ravenous Bugblatter Beast of Traal, except he's got _duct-tape in his ears_ instead of a towel over his head. It's still equally stupid, in his book.

And, yeah, okay. Make that _definitely_ a concussion. His brain doesn't normally digress this much.

He lets out a soft curse when there's sharp, unmistakeable, cracks of gunfire within the village. Loud enough that he can hear them through the damn plugs, which means the shooters are closer than he likes.

Maybe it's the makeshift earplugs, maybe it's a tactical error on his part, or maybe it's his injuries talking, but the gunfire is the absolute last thing he's expecting. He didn't expect the Dylosians to go from spears to semi-automatics in a few short hours, but then he's seen the Genii. Maybe he should have.

He lets out a soft grunt of surprise when something throws him back against what he was leaning against – a tent maybe? – that gives a little under him. It feels vaguely like he's been kicked in the chest but from a distance. He knows his vest stopped most of it – he can feel the busted rib caused by impact trauma of a bullet hitting armor at high speed. More bruises.

Overall, though, the sensation isn't that bad. It doesn't really hurt. But then the bad ones never do.

It's trying to roll over that sends the alarm bells. Emphasis on the 'try' part. He never makes it. The effort leaves him still on his back with blackness in his vision, a hunger for air, and curses on his lips that he doesn't dare utter.

He knows instantly that he was shot by a P90. Its probably the only weapon in the entire galaxy that fires armor-piercing rounds, good for taking down Wraith in a couple of shots if you hit the right spot. The Genii, he knows, are nowhere near that level – their guns are more like shotguns going for collateral damage than the precision of the P90.

Although the armor-piercing thing is a problem.

The pain in his chest is sharp, where before his collarbone just...grated. Grated like a broken bone against bone. This is hole in the chest pain and it's kind of sharp. Obviously, the vest only could only stop the bullet so much, and his ribs and flesh did the rest. On the other hand, a few inches to the side, and it would've blown off his hand. Small mercy.

Gingerly, he unzips his vest and inserts his hand to feel around. And, yeah, there it is. There's a gsw on his chest, upper right quadrant. Experimentally he puts his hand over the wound, and lets out a soft curse when he feels air flow out the hole as he breathes. The diagnosis is easy, and disheartening. He has a sucking chest wound.

The problem with sucking chest wounds is that they suck.

Literally.

It creates an air-entry point in a place where the body was never designed to have one. With every inhale and exhale, he can hear air hissing and his blood gurgling, his lung struggling to expand against the pressure of _an entire world_. It means his lungs are compromised. If he can just put pressure on the entry site, cover it over, he might be able to survive this – at least long enough to get proper medical care, which means the same thing.

It's cause once again to be thankful for BDUs and TAC vests with an abundance of pockets. He's learned enough from Pegasus to have a basic kit on him at all times, at least off-world. He has enough in various pockets to do what has to be done, but it'd be nice if he had like, oh, maybe another set of hands. With an associated team member to match.

Dressing. He needs... Gauze. Plastic. Tape.

_Plastic._ That, he has. He rips the cover off the mangled MRE and shoves the contents into a BDU pants pocket. It's the cover he wants right now, not the rations. _Gauze_. Field trauma bandages. Yeah, okay, that works. All he wants is a single layer for the dressing, and some to mop up what's bleeding out of him. _Tape._ That, he definitely has. Two types, even. His hands start shaking as he gets the strips ready, because he knows he won't have time to tear them off when he's doing the actual dressing.

He makes himself lie down. Not because he really wants to, because he'd rather see what he's doing, but because it'll be less stress on his already overworked lung. Unzips his vest fully. Pushes his shirt up to his neck. And now he's finally ready.

Applying the occlusive dressing _on himself _is by far one of the most strangest and grossest things he's ever done. It even beats that time he'd been forced to administer first aid to a guy with half his leg blown off in a 'helo taking fire in the 'stan. _That _had been hairy. This is just... gross.

It seems like every bit of blood he manages to wipe away with his little wad of gauze is immediately replaced by twice as much. It's a sign, he knows, that he's probably bleeding internally and well on his way to developing a haemothorax. It's not something he cares to think about too deeply, beyond the fact that he needs to dress this wound right _now_, while he still has the strength to do so.

In the end, he just gives up on the blood thing. Its the dressing that's more important at this stage, not trying to mop up blood from an untreated wound. Besides, it already feels like something is sitting on his chest and he has to focus to see past the black motes in his vision.

Not that dressing the wound – that he can't even _see _– is much better. He ends up using the tips of the fingers on his bad hand to kind of track the hole's location while his right hand places the single layers of gauze then plastic.

This...is worse than flying blind or by instruments, its their _bastard child on steroids _and he's navigating without a flightplan.

Taping up the dressing, at least, is better. In the sense that all he has to do is hold the gauze and plastic in place – with his bad hand, no less – and put tape around all but half of one edge. Compared to everything else he's done today, this part is easy.

His hands are still shaking by the time he's done.

High pain thresholds don't mean he doesn't feel pain; they just mean he has to feel _a lot_ of pain before he lets himself keel over. Right now, he's kind of regretting that fact. He's also not ashamed to admit that he'd do almost anything for some morphine right now, particularly a battlefield dose from one of their field kits.

He lets his head flop back on to the ground and focuses on his breathing. In. Out.

In.

Out.

He's pretty sure that now that he has the dressing on, this breathing thing should get easier.

In.

Out.

In.

Out

. . .

* * *

Somewhere after night has fallen, Elod da Dev is taken from the tent.

By force.

After she leaves, it is just the team.

There is the sound of a piercing scream, cut short.

After that, there is silence.

No one in the tent speaks.

They know they're probably next.

* * *

There's one thing about Zelenka, Lorne reflects to himself. His degree of excitement is proportional to his command of English.

"_Našel jsem ji!_ I found it! I found it!"

Lorne hurries over from doing yet another perimeter sweep to where the scientists are gathered around the computer. Not that the sweeps are necessary, this being the Gamma Site, but its still something to do.

"Where?" he says, cutting to the chase.

"MP8-391. See?" Zelenka says, and points to address on screen.

To Lorne, it looks like any other list of symbols. He nods anyway. "You sure?"

Zelenka shrugs fatalistically. "Is only one on week's Random List."

That settles it for the Major and he looks at his watch. If they hurry, they'll make it within their three hour limit. "Pack it up, people! We've a team to find."

* * *

It takes longer than he likes for his breathing to settle, for his strength, such as it is, to return. For his vision to clear from foggy gray to colors and then shapes that he can recognize.

He realizes then that he's lying against a tent at the edge of the Dylosian encampment. Not really a good place to be, but then he hadn't had much choice at the time. _Way to go, John._

Standing up feels like he's peeling himself up off the ground, like peeling the skin of a piece of stonefruit or something. It's messy, and not just because he's feeling something trickling down his chest again. He's dizzy and the gray is sneaking back over his vision. His body definitely is not welcoming the change and the world is surely spinning in sickening circles. Or maybe it's him.

That's what makes the decision for him. Next tent he finds, or rather, next tent _opening_ he finds, he's going inside and sitting down for a while. This rescue business is hard work.

Which is why he simply goes around the tent he's leaning against. Right now, one tent is as good as another. He pauses a moment to take the duct-tape out of his ears, hears nothing, then stumbles through.

His eyes adjust slowly to the interior. He blinks again to make sure, and breaks out into a slow smile. "Well." He breathes again to get enough for air for few more words. "Fancy meeting. You here." And then sitting down is more urgent, so he does. There's some kind of crate helpfully placed near the entrance, and that's what he ends up on. _Helpful people, the Dylosians_, he decides.

"Sheppard!" "Colonel!" "John!"

His team. He's found his _team_. In cages, tied up, but he's found them.

"What happened to you?" Rodney asks, peering at him. "You look like you've been through the mill. Actually, I think the mill would've been a kindness and I never understood that saying anyway. You look like you've been spat out of a shredder and rolled through the dust of the armpits of a thousand camels."

Sheppard grins. He actually missed this. "Thanks Rodney."

"For what?"

"I must look pretty good, then." He pauses. "But..._camels_, Rodney? Seriously?"

"Made you pay attention, didn't it?"

"Yeah," he breathes. Then coughs. And has to decide between grabbing his chest or grabbing at his shoulder. His shoulder wins.

"Are you okay?" Teyla asks, her voice firm with that _do-not-lie-to-me_ tone that he kind of hates.

He considers lying anyway, going with the standard 'fine' answer, but he's never really been able to lie to his team off-world. It's kind of one of his own personal Rules. "Not really. The cliff didn't like me."

"John." Teyla pushes, now in _do-not-make-me-come-over-there_. Not that she can, right now, but the threat is definitely there.

He sighs. "Collarbone." Which is far more important than a few busted ribs and his chest wound, in his opinion, because of how much movement is restricted.

She nods, satisfied, and shifts enough to face him fully in what light there is. "John. You have to free us as soon as you can. It is a...a koo de eat—"

"_Coup d'état_. Its French, means a decisive change of government by force," Rodney explains automatically, then makes a face as he realizes what he just said.

"Yes, thank you, Rodney. I strongly suspect they have already killed their leaders, and we were warned that we would be next."

Ronon peers at him through the cage network of bars. "You have a key?"

Sheppard wants to shake his head, but he has a feeling that if he did he'd fall over. "No." But internally, he's kicking himself. Of all the things he forgets to pick up, he always forgets _the key_.

"Brilliant, Sheppard," snarks Rodney. "How do you expect to get us out of here, then? With the skeleton key in your back pocket? Or did you happen to accost a thief in your way here and manage to pick up a pair of lock-picks? Or perhaps you found a helpful villager and..."

He tunes out the rest of the rant, because it triggers a memory. He rummages around in one of his vest pockets for a moment, and holds up his items triumphantly. "Aha! Knew I had some."

"on some bongo—" It instantly derails Rodney. "Wait. What? How do _paperclips_ help?"

"Lock-picks," is all Sheppard says, and gets to work. He'd rather do this with the extra help of a hammer, but all he has is some pliers. It works...well enough. A few minutes later, and he's the proud holder of a crude lock-pick and tension wrench.

He goes to Ronon's cage first. Mainly because it's closer, and he's not that picky. He'd have gone to whoever's cage was closest.

The roughness of his work on the picks means that he has to be extra careful at the lock. It takes a little longer than normal, mainly because these are _lock-picks from paperclips_ than because he's doing this one-handed. He's lockpicked one-handed before, that's not the issue here. As long as he holds the tension wrench with his little and ring fingers, it works well enough. The problem is that the paperclip metal is more malleable than the standard pick, and even as he's forcing the lock he's being careful that the pick maintains its shape.

It takes, he estimates, three minutes to do the lock. Not that he's timing it or anything.

"That's...rather impressive."

Sheppard snorts. "I'm out of practice." He hasn't picked a lock since Afghanistan and his skills are rusty. Also, it may be possible that the gunshot wound is starting to affect him. The dizziness is getting worse. He does his best to hide it, but going inside the cage, he has to hold onto the cage door to keep himself upright. And when he uses his trusty (purloined) knife on the ropes, his fingers feel fat and clumsy and the knife impossible to handle. He keeps cutting anyway, all too aware of how little time they have.

Once he's through the ropes around Ronon's wrists, he leaves the knife beside Ronon and goes to the lock on the next cage. Not only because Ronon is better with a knife – which would be true even if he wasn't injured and Ronon was the one with the chest wound – but because at the moment his skills are better suited to lock-picking. And lock-picking, by its very nature, hides how much his hands are shaking.

Even though he knows now what he needs to do on the locks, his time remains about the same. The brain can only overcome the failings of the body so far, and his body is failing rather rapidly on him.

Ronon comes behind him, cutting ropes (vines?) and freeing his team. After the last cage, John decides its a perfect time to sit down on his crate. It's either that or fall down, and he's done enough falling today.

When everyone's free, they all look at each other.

"I want—" "How about—" "But—"

John's tired of the confusion within moments. Its making his head hurt. Hell, its making his _ears_ hurt. He whistles, and everyone else shuts up. He glares at them for good measure. "We'll call a vote on where we go from here."

"I want my gun back," Ronon states. Which is his standard answer in this situation.

"Atlantis," Rodney volleys back, thinning his lips and crossing his arms. It's also pretty much Rodney's default answer.

John has to think about it. He's all for going back for their weapons, and, yeah, he's pretty sure they have a Rule somewhere about not _leaving_ weapons with natives (there's a separate one about _trading_ weapons that he suspects Elizabeth made up just for him). On the other hand, he really wants to be back in Atlantis in an infirmary bed. So in the end, he only has one answer. "I abstain," he says simply.

Teyla has the deciding vote. Ever the peacemaker, she decides on both options. "Rodney, take John with you back to Atlantis. Ronon, I will go with you to retrieve our weapons, and we will follow you when we can."

Although Sheppard hates splitting the team like this, it's a sound plan, and the only way to satisfy everyone at the moment. "Yeah, okay," he decides.

* * *

The trek back to the gate is just that. A trek. In John's memory it will forever stand out as one of the hardest and most difficult parts of this crazy, mucked up day. Ironically, it will also be the part he remembers the least.

* * *

Walking, Sheppard decides, is hell.

Every step seems to jar his collarbone, no matter what he does. Even gripping his bad arm and holding it against body doesn't help that much. Its doing something to his wound, too. It feels like a vise is clamped around his chest, and its getting tighter with each step.

He's so focused on the effort to breathe that its a surprise entirely when another part of his body gives way and his legs dump him to the ground, although in hindsight he should have expected it. Oxygen deprivation. All the blood flow is going to his torso, not his limbs. Probably not his brain either, which might explain why his vision's going as well and his thoughts are moving like molasses.

He blinks. Yeah, he's on the ground, looking up at a panicked Rodney. He can hear rustling, and tapping, and cursing. Maybe something to do with the scanner? Then Rodney's unceremoniously dragging him back, off what little trail they were following back to Atlantis and moving into the jungle. What part of Sheppard can still think agrees wholeheartedly, that a little cover is better than none, and he makes an effort to help.

"Stop _helping_, Sheppard. Seriously. You're flailing like a bleached whale. Its worse than watching Kavanaugh trying to avoid our plumbing problems. And how heavy are you anyway? What are you carrying in that vest? Enough weapons for a war? Another Athosian, maybe? There is no way a guy as slim as you should be this heavy."

"S'Muscle," he says. Or slurs the syllables that sound vaguely, possibly, maybe like that.

He blinks. Rodney fusses with the vegetation. Creating shelter. Covering their tracks. He's come a long way.

He blinks again. And suddenly Rodney's leaning over him, tapping his face. He has the feeling, judging by Rodney's expression and the feeling of his cheek, that he's been tapping for a while. "Sheppard. Sheppard. Come on. Wake up now."

"M'here." He forces his eyes open wide, not sure if he should let himself blink again. Strange things happen when he blinks.

Rodney gets in his face. "Colonel. Tell. Me. What's. Wrong."

He breathes and hears plastic crinkle, takes care to get the words out clearly, "I may...have been...shot..."

"What?!" Rodney half-shouts, remembering at the last moment to modulate his voice. "And you remember to tell me this vital piece of information _now_, you half-brain-dead idiot?"

"Tellin' now." _Breathe, John. Breathe._ "And wasn't...biggie, before." Getting his team free came first. Always would.

"You've been _shot_," Rodney hisses. "I think we can establish that your processing facilities are below par."

"Hey... Coulda been... Mensa."

"Operative world being 'coulda'. Now shut up and tell me where."

For a moment his brain gets stuck on the logic fallacy and he lets out a hoarse chuckle. "Lung." He tries to gesture, to point out where, but his hand feels like it weighs a ton and he has the suspicion that it doesn't quite work. "Already...dressed."

"Well of course you're already dressed," Rodney mutters, setting about unzipping the vest to take a look himself. "What do you think you are, running around buck naked? Seriously, the mentality of the military mind. Maybe I'll tender a hypothesis with my next paper, that they lose IQ points with each—oh." When he brings his hand out from under John's t-shirt, its stained red.

"Oh." He stares. "I'm guessing...that's not good." Maybe he should have told Teyla about the chest wound thing after all...?

"No. Not really. I don't suppose you have a kit on you."

He huffs a laugh at this. "In my pack."

"Which is..." he scowls. "Funny, Colonel. _Hilarious_. What about the bullet? Do you know if there's an exit wound?

"I—I don't know?" He lets his breath out in a hiss. The pain's coming in waves now, and there's nothing he can do for it but ride it out, and that, more than anything, is what annoys him. With no packs, they have no first aid kit, and that means _no morphine_. "T—Talk to me, Rodney."

"About what?"

"I don't know." He bits his lip at a new wave, and feels sweat bead on his forehead. Yeah. This is not going to be pleasant. What he needs is medical help. What he needs, failing that, is a _distraction_. When the wave passes and he can think again, he grits out something he's fairly sure will get Rodney going. "What about...your new password."

"My new..." There's a pause, just long enough for Rodney to breathe. And then the ranting starts. "What do you mean, my new password? Why should _I_ have to make up a new password? For that matter, I don't see why it should be _us_ that have to change _our _security."

Despite the pain, John grins. Of course Rodney would never let something like a mission gone wrong shut him up. "Because... Its SOP...after a foothold," he replies patiently. Well, as patiently as he can, considering the pain in his chest, his general lack of air, and the fact that this is a discussion he's been having with Rodney ever since Elizabeth discussed with them the need to change all passwords at their last senior staff meeting three days ago. Actually, changing passwords is just the beginning. What they really need to do is overhaul the OS they use to interface with the Ancient database, especially since the one they have has been copied into enemy hands. John figures Elizabeth is leading the scientists up to that one, though.

Rodney frowns. "If anything, it was more a bridgehead than a foothold. A foothold implies the capture of our territory, while a bridgehead implies a defensive post _against _the enemy."

"So? Security...on our end was...c—compromised." _Breathe through it, John. _"Changing passwords...is the very least...of...what we...need to do." Actually, when John starts thinking of all the things they need to do to prevent this sort of thing happening again, he starts getting headaches. The list is too long, and he's not set up for intergalactic policing, dammit. Right now, he'll settle for inter-team policing. Or some morphine. Hell, he'll even take some codeine.

Mainly because he's really not looking forward to the paperwork he's facing when he get's back from this mission, but that's another story. Because if he manages to escape the infirmary inside a week after this, he'll be very surprised.

The next wave takes him by surprise, and he barely manages to ride it above the darkness he can feel beneath. He doesn't know how long it lasts. All he knows is that when he can finally open his eyes, he's spent, his energy exhausted. Either way, it won't be long now.

The sound of a jumper is something he knows deep in his bones, and would reach him anywhere. Same with the tickle of Ancient tech in the back of his mind. Especially off-world, where there's no interference from other devices and Atlantis herself. Its unmistakeable.

He clenches at Rodney's wrist, and doesn't have to see the look on his friend's face to know there's no strength in his grip. "Help's...coming," he gets out, and his words are no more than a whisper.

"What took them so long?" he hears Rodney snap, and then he goes under the wave.

* * *

The next few days are a blur.

He fluctuates between inhaling shards of glass when he breathes or floating in the warmth of some heavy duty drugs. There's heat and cold, heat and cold, a cycle that never settles anywhere in between.

In between that, there's some totally surreal conversations.

There's one really freaky one about Einstein, Newton, and geek jokes that he has with Rodney. There's one he has with Elizabeth discussing the fate of the melodies of the world. And never ending ones with his doctors. Teyla just keeps patting his wrist. Ronon looms.

There's beeping. Lots of beeping. Tubes going everywhere and nowhere. Not enough air. And darkness. Smothering darkness.

After a while he stops feeling like he's inhaling shards of glass. The change is enough that he surfaces more fully.

* * *

That's one thing about Atlantis. With the infirmary _in_ the military base, they have an abbreviated release process. As soon as he's awake and lucid for more than a few hours, Carson is making noises about getting him out of his hair. They haven't yet had enough _Daedalus_ trips that they have enough beds for an emergency, and Carson likes to play it safe.

Not that Sheppard's complaining, because the infirmary is always the last place he wants to be (company aside because despite his occupation, Carson's a good friend), but he has rather clear memories of being in a lot of pain. The kind of pain that usually mean surgery and a long recovery.

"Nope," Carson answers, when he finally tentatively brings it up during his release. Its also the first time that Carson's schedule has meant he can spend any real time with him. "The worst you had was the collarbone. Broken in two places, not uncommon, but bad enough."

"And the bullet?"

"Easily enough removed when I was putting in the tube." The doctor taps monitors to turn them off and removes his pulse-ox, his last monitoring device. "What's the clearest thing you remember?"

"Shards of glass," he replies promptly. "Felt like I was breathing them in all the time."

"Aye. That would be the chest tube. I'm told they can be a mite uncomfortable, which is why we tried to keep you sedated. 'Cept you kept trying to wake up, but that was the fever and shock talking." Carson sits on the bed, still cheerful. "Lean forward for me lad, but let me do the work. Your shoulder isn't up to working yet."

It's disconcerting, leaning forward under someone else's power. He does his best to relax into it, and concentrates instead on his view – _really _up close and personal – of the fibers of Carson's white lab coat. "I ran a fever?" he mumbles into the coat. Would explain the heat and cold thing in his memory.

"Mmmhmm. Deep breath for me lad, and I'll have a listen."

The cool touch of the stethoscope on his back. Breathe. In. Breathe. Out.

Carson leans him back against the pillows. "Sounds clear. You're good to go."

Sheppard just nods, and knows that from here, it's an easy ride out the door. An abbreviated release schedule means that, for the most part, there's no paperwork. Not that they'd know what to do with said paper if they had it, or how to generate it. Atlantis is far more paperless than Earth will ever be.

Then Carson dumps some blue...thing on his bed.

Sheppard pokes it with his finger. Its all straps and vinyl and more straps. It looks complicated. "What's this?"

"Your sling, for your shoulder. We can't set shoulder bones, so it'll support you while it heals. I'll help you put it on this first time, but you'll be doing it yourself afterwards. Only take it off to shower."

"Um, shouldn't I be unhooked first?" he asks, waving his hand where the IV is still running in.

"Trust me son, I'm doing you a favor. Take a moment to enjoy the relief. Because after this, you'll be changing it on oral painkillers." Carson pauses a moment. "That wasn't supposed to sound threatening, by the way."

"Okaaay."

He shuts up then, and lets Carson work. He takes note of where every strap goes in the sling. To him, it works much like his thigh holster does, except it's for cradling his bad arm and the straps go around his chest and over his shoulders. It may take some practice to do it one-handed, but he knows instantly that he can do it. That is, his brain knows the moves, it may just take a while to teach it to his body.

He's finally unhooked from the IV, the cannula's out, and his clothes appear. Freedom inches that little bit closer.

He gains a whole new appreciation for the benefits of said sling when Carson helps him get dressed. He's had enough injuries in his career that it's not the first time he's done it one-handed, nor is a broken collarbone new to him. Last time he'd had this...brace thing. The sling is far more comfortable and supports his elbow a lot better. And as long as he doesn't move the arm – like when he instinctively went to put it through the arm of his shirt – he's okay.

"Ah," tuts Carson, more annoyed with himself than Sheppard. "That's what I meant to tell you. Don't move the arm. You'll be off duty for a month, light duty for two weeks after, minimum. Move that arm like that, and it'll be longer."

"Six _weeks_?" he asks, when he speak again.

"Could be up to ten, maybe even three months. Depends on how well you heal," Carson shrugs, even as he buttons the BDU top the team had provided over the sling. The arm on his bad side hangs loose until it gets tucked into his pants. "Now. You have a concussion, broken collarbone, and broken ribs. All of which will take time to heal. Come back every week, earlier if you have any unusual symptoms, and we'll re-scan things and see how you're healing. Now, get," Carson says affectionately. "I don't want to see until next week."

He gets. "Yes, sir," Sheppard grins, lobbing a lazy salute as he leaves.

The first thing he does is head to the Mess. Not because he's hungry – although he probably will be soon, jokes about infirmary food aside – but because he craves association. He wants _people_, to be surrounded by the people of Atlantis and watch the people of Atlantis. He wants it like a drug, like he's missed his hit for days and its an empty ache within.

Not that he knows what addiction feels like. Yeah. No. Not admitting to _anything_.

He pauses a moment on the threshold of the Mess to listen to the chatter, and feels something ease within him with the realization that his city's ok, everythings safe. He goes inside, and habit makes him go to the chow line and take a tray. He goes down the servers, pushing his tray along, chatting easily. Yeah, this is definitely just what he needs, this reconnection.

Its only when he has all his little compartments loaded, and is looking between his tray and the coffee – seriously, its _coffee_, there's _no way_ he's going without that – that he realises what he's done. He has one hand, a fully loaded tray, and a desire to commit murder if he doesn't get his coffee _right now_.

Except that if he wants it, he's going to have to find a table, put his tray down, come back to the coffee, make it up, re-find his table, and then have it. _Calm down, John. You waited this long. You can wait five minutes._

Right. He can do this.

First, he just has to pick up his tray.

Instinctively, he goes to pick up, and—

He bites his lip to keep from swearing loudly and viciously. His left shoulder is reminding him long and loud that the bone is unset, and won't heal at least for another six weeks. _Damn. It's gonna be a long six weeks._ If he hadn't just come from Beckett's clutches, he'd forget all about the stupid tray and he'd be heading right back begging for relief. As it is, he forces himself to breathe through it.

But before he can talk himself into picking up the tray, its whisked away from beneath him. He – carefully – turns to look, and Teyla is standing next to him, holding the cursed thing. Ronon's doing something at the coffee table, and Rodney's loudly telling him what he's doing _wrong wrong wrong_. Before he knows it, Teyla's carrying his tray and leading the way to the table, Ronon's cradling his coffee with all the reverence it deserves, and Rodney is ranting about his minions and passwords and updating him on all the latest gossip. He follows along, feeling finally at home, reminded all over again that his team is made of _awesome_.

_**END**_

* * *

_**PROMPT:**_

Team. Sheppard powering through illness or injury. Gunshot wounds and action. Like Shep to have to deal with an injury (physically and emotionally) without "professional" help. I.e. in the field or away from safety. Bonus points if team thinks shep is dead for short time but he then surprises them or makes it home or has pulled a clever stunt etc. (like in Midway).

_I think I got most things. Out of them all, finding a way to get Shep shot was actually the most difficult, lol. The rest was easy, compared to that, especially since I regard action writing with the affection of having my wisdom teeth pulled. :) I went with the off-world option, because yeah, I (probably mistakenly) thought doing it on Atlantis woulda been too easy. I hope this satisfies. I did try for all the bonus points, but I wasn't quite sure about the 'clever stunt' thing. It was gonna be homemade flashbang :), but I think I wrote myself out of that. :)_

_Interesting point to note: the conversations between the Dylosians and Sheppard's team use only the thousand most common english words, if you discount the names (and Rodney, lol). If you don't believe me, you can run them through: splasho dot com /upgoer5 ._

_Also, apologies if its a little...rough. You wouldn't believe the things that happened to me while I was trying to write this. Not to mention, this is my first SGA fic ever, and if its any good, I owe it all to my beta. :-)_


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